The Loneliest Traid

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  • Published: 2 Apr 2017
  • Updated: 13 May 2017
  • Status: Complete
Love and death and war and Gods and blood and magic and dancing and rest and revenge and kings and fate.
Don't worry, within these three stories you'll know yourself,
And I will put you back together again.


36. The Lord Doesn’t Watch Over The Wars You Rage

Dyrad was killed by no one known.  If I told you who it was, you wouldn’t care, Dyrad probably would care much from his place in the third realm.

    There is no Heaven or Hell, if that is all you know.  There is what is implied to be Heaven - land of the Gods.  Then there is where the lost souls live, which you might want to call Hell, but Hell is an inevitable part of the death we all must face.  There is a fourth realm, one of rebirth, but as there are no rebirths in the fates of these few heroes we will move on.

    The soul of Dyrad was one that was destined to be tormented by those he had carelessly sentenced to death, those he had tortured and those he had allowed to murder and to be murdered in his name.  As well as that were the hundreds in his army that had given their lives to serve him only to see what he really was, far too late.

    If you care to know, if there is a Hell as you imagine it, Dyrad is there now and will be for the rest of time.  Rebirth does not come easy to those whose hands are stained so red.

    His eldest became queen, the girl who we have met before.

    She had been the one to deliver the letter sent by Gomez long ago when there was a price on the boy’s head for deserting, if you’d remember that far back.  Her name was Meliae and she was kind.  Plain as flour and never meant to lead, but pure of elven blood, and pure of heart.  She spent her days in power doing everything she could to keep her siblings alive, no matter the cost.  It is said that there are children who died in those walls trapped within the spiral of fear their sister had created, and not one person would blame them for it.

    The war ended with the near collapse of the elven castle, half of the buildings in the west wing falling to a plight of cannon fire and bombs.  The dungeon, kitchen and great hall were included in the destruction, as well as half of the elven prince and princesses.  It was a tragic day for the entire land, and the clouds of that night sky were bathed in lanterns that died out in the midnight downpour.

    But as good comes of all things, no matter how bleak, it caused a revolution much more peaceful in its means.  Wicca folk from across Cardeni were under the protection of jinn now, of a traumatised leader with a son buried in the battlefield.  Figuratively, of course, he died in a castle siege, the boy unwilling to go out and fight in fear of the life he lost regardless.

    And those with magic blood rebuilt the land and were free to do as they pleased as long as they did no harm, or at least more good to balance it again.  Witches and wizards were free for the first time in a very long time, and for that peace reigned again for another few hundred years, until greed rose once more through the illusion.


    But this story is before all that.  While the royal children are alive and still learn and teach in the kingdom and dream of what they will be one day when this battle comes to an end.

    This story begins in the woods to the far west, before the mountains where the ice grows thin enough to see the heads of snowdrops bloom, as they have everywhere, of late, for no reason that anyone can explain.

    This story is one of the elven child whose true name was not given, but rather earned, and a boy whose mother died to give him her life, and who lived up to what she had hoped for him to be.

    And their story begins again with Chene running into the forest with his monster by his side, and his entire patrol ready to kill him.

    Not to mention Gomez, who was playing his lyre in a tree and was more than surprised to see Chene on the opposite branch.

    “Hello, stranger.” he said.



    Chene was breathless, half with running, half with unfiltered surprise, “You!  I thought you were dead?”

    Gomez shrugged, strumming lightly.

    “Um… Could - Could you stop playing that please?  I’m trying to avoid being hunted.”

    “Oh, of course, if I can just loosen the strings first?”


    Chene fell to the ground, an arrow hitting against his ribcage and bursting his lung.  Gomez heard a snap as he fell from the branch, and then nothing.

    “Chene?” he peaked down at the mangled body below him, “Are you okay?”

    “Ju-Just peachy.”

    Gomez laughed, swinging a rope around the trunk and sliding down the bark as if it were easy somehow, “That’s the warrior I remember, now sit up and let me pull this out of you, and don’t you dare say that it was my fault if you die this time.”

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